I perused the shelves of a book store today, then in short time I took my place. Surrounded by the smell of them, the bright beautiful sight of them standing in a row, I am humbled by their power. They have the ability to change minds, to open hearts, and to make sense of the insensible. I signed when it was my turn. When they requested my dedication, I named them and I signed.
I suppose you might say, I am their accidental author. I wrote about me and it brought me to them. My story … analysis and insight, information and enlightenment, my opportunity … to set the record straight. It was healing and forgiveness. It was illness and mental unrest. And now they come to me. Exposing who they are by what they think, they share private thoughts in a public house. They are not afraid. As each one steps before me, our eyes meet and as I understand their place, our lives collide.
Every time I sign, it is the same. Every moment, deeply different. They come to me, yearning. They prognosticate. They deny. Mentally speaking, mutual thoughts. Their pain is troublesome. Each soul is unique. But they need more than three minutes of my attention; I cannot be what they need. For I am their accidental author. I convey to them my message, and speak of where I came. But I am only a moment of hope in their mirrors reflection, a chance meeting, a wish that what I know may help along the way.
For reasons unknown, we met on that day at the book store. By curiosity, by chance, I was sitting there at just at the right time. Perhaps they will read my words and the message will guide them through their journey … but in the end, they are taking me home.
By their request, I have signed and they are taking me home.